


We Are All Hours, We Are All Days

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Threesome in the North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, First Time, Future Fic, Group Marriage, Hand Jobs, Multi, Threesome - F/F/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They spend more time kissing than Val thinks she ever has, each switching from one to another, tongues reaching until they’re sore, hands and bodies touching until they’re trembling with need. Jon is so familiar to Val’s hands, but Sansa’s presence makes him new, so that Val learns him all over again the way she’s learning Sansa.</p><p>R+L=J, spoilers through ASoS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are All Hours, We Are All Days

**Author's Note:**

> From the kinkmeme prompt: Sansa/Jon/Val – Sansa comes to their marriage bed a maid. Val takes it upon herself to teach her how to bed a man by directing her and Jon's activities and occasionally lending a hand.

It is not her idea, marrying Jon Snow. Few things have been her own ideas of late, though Val had known she was ceding a good measure of control of her own life when she came south to Winterfell. Indeed, she knew it when Jon sent her North of the Wall to find Tormund; she’d considered never returning then, but not for long, and never seriously. No matter the romance that freedom holds, it means little if one is dead, or worse, if one doesn’t stay dead. So Val had come back, and when Jon Snow had become a Targaryen in heritage, if not in name, she’d followed him to Winterfell at his request – and a request it truly had been, else she might not have heeded it – and now she will wed him at his Queen’s and newfound kin’s command. But Val is not the only one. In her, Jon will wed what is beyond the Wall, and in his former sister, Jon will wed what is below it, and together they will create a Kingdom. There are worse people to be bound to. Far, far worse. They're curious creatures, these kneelers, but Val can't help but like them.

Sansa is a sweet girl, though her wariness speaks of a troubled soul. Val had heard much of her before she’d arrived. Contrary to what she expected, though, Sansa had been kind and gracious, almost deferential to Val from the start. Val has grown used to deference, but not from women. Only men treat her as such, only the Crows who called her Princess, and their deference was laced with lust and avarice, with angry blood. She did not trust it from them, but Sansa has no hidden aims. She looks to Val for everything, even the simplest decisions that she’s more than capable of on her own, and more than once Val has to tell her that it is her home and that they are her decisions to make as much as anyone’s.

“You’re the Lady of Winterfell,” Jon says when Val mentions it in his chambers one night, and it’s something of a surprise. She’d not considered herself such a thing, and would have expected even less for anyone else to do so.

“She is to be your wife as well,” she points out, and Jon smiles.

“You are all but my wife already,” he says, and there’s the barest bit of a blush on his cheeks, as if he feels presumptuous even saying such a thing, though it’s more than true. Val knows him as intimately as any wife, and he her. No other man would color so at speaking only the truth, of that Val is sure. 

“I suppose you have quite stolen me, haven’t you?” she teases, and he colors further, his cheek hot under her hand. It does something to her heart, tips it in a funny way that has heat spilling from it to pool in her fingertips and toes, and she thinks she should regret that she’s so taken with him, but it’s hard to regret something that feels so very lovely. 

As their wedding approaches, Val takes the opportunity to learn her good-sister, her husband’s soon-to-be other wife. Sansa is as proper as he is honor-bound. It makes Val laugh to watch them, she so prim, he so deferential. At first Val thinks they have no feeling for each other – a bit odd, given that they'd grown as children together before either learned the truth of Jon's Targaryen parentage, but Val's seen enough to know that not all are fond of their siblings, and that even among freefolk she and Dalla were exceptionally close. But then she stumbles upon them in a seldom-used room only days before the wedding. They are talking, no more than that, but the space around them crackles like the air before a storm, and Val instantly knows what is between them, the feelings that they fight. They may not know, but she does; she sees the way Sansa’s hand trembles on his sleeve when she touches his arm, sees the look on Jon’s face that he’s worn so often when looking at Val herself. Jon reaches out, ghosts one tentative fingertip over Sansa’s cheek, and the longing on Sansa’s face as she sways towards him might be visible from the Wall, though Val knows Jon probably sees none of it, or at least convinces himself that he doesn’t – he has become far too practiced at denying what he wants to believe even when it is before him. But Val sees, and she can see that Sansa is desperate for love. And she thinks Jon will always hunger for the same, no matter that he is Lord of Winterfell, no matter that Val lies with him each night. He will always need more to fill the void deep in his ribs, and Val thinks that perhaps the Dragon Queen was smarter than Val had realized when she made this match between the three of them.

Sansa is busy at her needlework when Val finds her in the solar the next day. Ghost curls at her feet as her fingers pick out delicate blue flowers on the lawn, her work intricate enough that it makes Val’s eyes cross and her head ache just looking on it.

“You are patient in a way I could never manage,” Val tells her.

“It is a quality I’d rather not have had so many reasons to develop,” Sansa answers wryly, and Val smiles. Sweet she may be, but there is spice to this Stark girl, and a core of steel. 

“You’d fit in well among my folk,” she says. Immediately, Sansa blushes, ducks her head to fix her eyes on the hoop in her lap.

“Oh no,” she says. “I’d not last a day. I’m not near so strong as you are. Nor anyone else. Sometimes I fear I’m only a hothouse flower among oak trees.” There is no false modesty in her words, Val doesn’t think, no dissemblance. She does not see herself as strong. No doubt these kneelers around her don’t either. 

“Sansa,” Val says, catching the girl’s chin in her hand and leaning down to look her in the eye. “The wind that uproots the oak only ruffles the petals of a flower.” Sansa blushes prettily, she attempts to pull away from Val’s grip, but Val holds her and she sees the water that wells in Sansa's eyes, the teeth that catch the edge of her lip. She sees how much Sansa wants to believe her. It is impulse that has Val pressing gentle lips to Sansa’s, impulse and curiosity and an idea of what could be between the three of them. She doesn’t know quite what has Sansa gasping, what makes her lips soften and part for Val, what makes her return the kiss with a shy intensity that’s as surprising as it is affecting. She doesn’t know, but she’ll have time to learn.

“Will you keep us apart forever?” she asks Jon that night, as he lies boneless in her arms, his release sticky on her thighs and his heart beating against hers like thunder. He is softest after, at his most vulnerable. Val’s learned that he can be coaxed into most anything if only she asks when he is like this.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Your two wives. Will you have us take turns?” He lifts his head from her breast to look at her, consternation etching furrows on his brow.

“What else would you have me do?”

“Jon Snow,” Val laughs, his name on her lips an endearment, the softest one she’ll allow herself when he has so much of her heart. “Ygritte did not teach you as much as I thought if you must ask such a thing.” She sees it the moment he understands her meaning, his confusion turning to comprehension and then swiftly becoming desire, a desire he struggles to hide beneath shock and disbelief.

“You would… You mean, all three… Both of you…”

“You’ve caught on,” she says drily over his stammers. He is really far too easy to tease and discomfit. She enjoys it far too much.

“Sansa would never…” he tries, but Val makes a dismissive noise, arches a brow and gives him a smirk.

“I think you’d be surprised at what Sansa might enjoy.”

That’s what breaks him, and she sees his eyes expand into blackness just before he presses his face to the dip between her breasts, his breathing hot on her skin, his cock growing hard again already at her hip. “Gods,” he moans, sounding agonized, and she smiles.

On the day they’re wed, they stand before the heart tree, all three of them, Val on his left and Sansa on his right. Val doesn’t need the ceremony, she knows Jon is her husband no matter who else agrees, but something in her is still glad of this ritual, glad to become his wife in the way most familiar to him. Sansa’s face is a lovely mask, but Val thinks she’s glad of it as well. Jon’s cloak is heavy on her shoulders. It holds her to the ground, red leaves crunching beneath her knees, and she thinks maybe she is happy.

The feast is enjoyable enough. Sansa drinks too much, her cheeks bearing pink flags, and it's only habit that keeps Jon from being as pink-cheeked and unsteady as she from all he drinks. When the music begins, Val draws Jon out to dance with her. His surprise shows plain in his face when she puts a hand in his and easily follows him in a paired dance she’d been told was popular.

“I learned one of your kneeler dances for the occasion,” she tells him with a grin. There is genuine gratification in his smile, and something too soft for her to bear, so she puts her cheek to his and closes her eyes. His chuckle sounds in her ear; he knows his feelings for her often leave her discomfited and overwhelmed. So he tucks a kiss behind her ear and holds her close, close enough to make her feel hot all over. Once the song has ended, she finds Sansa and bears her out to dance with them, showing them an old Freefolk step that they can all three dance together.

The guests don’t seem to know how to approach the bedding when it comes time, the problem of two brides an unfamiliar one to everyone present. Val thinks some of the hesitation might be over her, though; her first week in Winterfell, she’d pulled a knife on a few of the men who had dared touch her. She makes a show of laughing and submitting herself, both hands out with fingers spread, and soon she and Sansa are being born away, Jon’s face a worried mask when she catches glimpse of it over one man’s shoulder. It makes Val laugh. He’s likely the one man in the whole of the North who won’t enjoy being stripped and ogled by a pack of women, too distracted as he is by his worry over Sansa. Val’s not sentimental enough to think any of his worry is for her, but it suits her that it isn’t. Were it not for Sansa, Val might teach these men a thing or two. Instead she smiles reassuringly at Sansa and keeps close when they’re set on their feet in an empty chamber and disrobed by less than gentle hands.

Val had been warned of these Northern weddings and the bedding that followed. If they’d been uncertain before as to how to proceed, the gathered men make up for it now, their japes crude and the comments ribald enough to give even Val pause. It seems far less civilized than being stolen in her mind, something she doesn’t think they’d like hearing. They fancy themselves far too honorable not to take umbrage. So instead she stands straight and fierce when her smallclothes are dragged down to her feet to leave her bare, stepping out of them and kicking them aside while staring so coolly at the men around her that they avert their eyes and back away. Sansa colors furiously beside her when her gown and shift are wrenched none too gently down her arms and over her hips, looking suddenly lost and unsure. It’s instinct that has Val extending her hand to snag Sansa’s and hold it tight, and Sansa’s smile is relieved. She even manages a tentative laugh, until one of the men reaches for her smallclothes and she freezes up, her arm banding protectively over her hips.

“No, please,” she says, “please don’t.” How anyone could ignore such a plaintive plea is beyond Val, but the man before Sansa does, his fingers pulling eagerly at the drawstring of her smallclothes despite her efforts to cringe away. He’s not so eager when Val gives him a sharp elbow in the throat. Not so tough either, rolling on the floor and coughing as he is.

“No more than you deserved,” she tells him when he finds breath to complain. Sansa grins, looking as though she’s only just stopping herself laughing, and squeezes Val’s hand so hard Val feels her knuckles crack.

They’re led to the wedding chamber and left alone after that, few of the men wanting to court injury further. Sansa clutches Val’s hand with both of hers as if it’s the only thing keeping her afloat. She’s quivering like a leaf in the wind. Val raises her free hand to Sansa's hair and runs careful fingers through the shining length of it, drawing it forward to flow down the slope of Sansa’s chest and curl under her bare breasts becomingly.

“Don’t fret, kitling,” she tells her. “Jon and I will never let any harm come to you.” Sansa gives her a tremulous smile and nods, but her eyes are still uncertain.

“He won’t…” she starts, then hesitates, swallowing nervously. Her eyes roam over Val's naked body and though her gaze is innocent, Val still feels herself warming at Sansa's shy inspection. “You are so lovely, he will not want me.” Val laughs loud and bright at the very notion of Jon’s want being contained by such a flimsy reason, at the idea that someone could find Sansa anything less than exquisite.

“You have nothing to worry over,” Val assures her, giving her hands another squeeze, but whatever more she might have said is cut short by the sound of the door. Jon latches it behind him, shutting out the raucous laughter and colorful suggestions from the crowd gathered in the hall. He stands before them in his smallclothes, offering them both a tender smile. Val is unsure whether the women left his smallclothes on or he insisted for propriety’s sake – for Sansa’s sake – but she imagines it’s the latter and it makes her feel a soft surge of tenderness for him.

“Come, Jon Snow,” she says with a curl of her finger to beckon him. “Your wives await you.”

It is more than he’d ever thought to want, she knows – she's come to understand the heart of him in their time together – and it makes him hesitant and tentative. It is she who kisses him first, knowing he’d never initiate even though she can see him hard and curving at the front of his smallclothes already. The dip of his tongue into her mouth is sweet and familiar but limned with something new that she chases into his mouth, wanting to memorize the taste of it. Sansa clutches even more tightly to Val’s hand with both of hers and Val tugs her closer, until she’s flush against both Val and Jon.

“Kiss your wife, Jon,” Val whispers against his lips when she pulls away. Half a hundred emotions chase across his face. It would be fascinating if he weren’t about be to completely exasperating, Val’s sure.

“Sansa,” he says, his voice raw, “this isn’t… You don’t have to…”

“Jon,” Val interrupts impatiently. “Perhaps you should ask her what she wishes.”

“Sansa…”

“Tell him, kitling,” Val urges, gripping Sansa’s hands reassuringly. “Do you want his kiss?”

“Yes,” Sansa says, her voice tumbling from her lips, fervent and pleading. “Oh yes, please.” The sound Jon makes is inchoate, urgent, his hand flexing on Val’s hip tight enough to be painful. Then he’s kissing Sansa sweetly, so sweetly, kissing her as if he’s dreamed of nothing else his whole life. Sansa tilts her face up to his kiss and falls into him, trusting and vulnerable. They are sweet to watch, russet hair against inky black, their skin white as milk, Sansa’s soft to Val’s touch and Jon’s spiderwebbed with silvery scars and scatterings of dark, coarse hair. They kiss like two lost souls. Val frees her hand from Sansa’s, strokes through the silken fall of her hair, sliding the fingers of her other hand up to cup and knead the nape of Jon’s neck. It makes him groan into Sansa’s mouth, opening his lips and seaming them to hers. For a moment, Val thinks she should leave them to find one another. But no, they need her as much as they need each other, and Val’s place is here.

“Val,” Jon gasps when she draws her fingers down his back to touch the divots flanking the base of his spine just above his smallclothes. He fists his hand in Sansa’s hair, holds her to him as he kisses Val just as he’d kissed Sansa before, a lost soul being found. His groan of disappointment when she pulls away is replaced by a moan of heartfelt appreciation when Val captures Sansa’s mouth and steals her tongue inside to taste all the places Jon’s tongue had already been.

They spend more time kissing than Val thinks she ever has, each switching from one to another, tongues reaching until they’re sore, hands and bodies touching until they’re trembling with need. Jon is so familiar to Val’s hands, but Sansa’s presence makes him new, so that Val learns him all over again the way she’s learning Sansa.

“You are a maid, are you not, Sansa?” Val asks. At first Sansa doesn’t seem to hear, her body swaying in a haze, her head turning to find the lips that are no longer on her own, not seeming to care whose lips they are. Then she blinks and flushes.

“Of course,” she says.

“Pity,” Val says, and grins at Sansa’s shock. “But we’ve time to catch you up.” She places a hand flat on Jon’s chest and pushes. He knows her well enough to show no surprise at anything she might do, so he only backs up at her urging until his calves collide with an armed wingchair by the fire and he sits reflexively, looking up at both of them with dark, appreciative eyes. Val draws Sansa in front of her to face Jon, her back at Val’s chest, Val’s chin tucked over her shoulder. “Would you like to feel ecstasy, Sansa?” she asks, never looking from Jon’s eyes, taking in the bob of his throat when she slides a hand over Sansa’s small breast and palms it until the peak is stiff beneath her hand.

“Yes,” Sansa breathes, her head dropping back to Val’s shoulder, her hands dropping limp at her sides. “Oh yes, Val, please.” The smile Val gives Jon is wicked and he swallows even harder, only to moan out loud when Val drags her hand down Sansa’s bare stomach to press over her smallclothes, rubbing the tips of her fingers in a slow circle.

“You like that, kitling?” Val asks on a purr, already knowing the answer from Sansa’s gasps and whimpers, from the tremble of her stomach and the damp heat already gathering beneath the cloth at Val’s fingertips. “Jon likes it,” she whispers in Sansa’s ear. "Jon likes it very much." Sansa’s eyes flutter open to see Jon watching her with hot, heavy eyes, and it’s enough to have her knees buckling so that she sags in Val’s arms. In a blink, Jon reaches out to catch her hips, dragging her onto his lap to kneel astride him, Val standing at Sansa’s back with her hand between them still rubbing over Sansa through her smallclothes. Jon’s hands make a protective cage around Sansa’s face and he kisses and kisses her while Val quickens her pace, until Sansa’s peak hits her and she’s quivering and singing out between them like a plucked harp string. It’s an easy enough thing for Val to switch her hand to Jon, freeing him from his breeches and pulling the moisture already beading at his tip down the length of him to let her hand slide easy. She twists her hand, works it over him until he’s close and then withdraws and laughs at his pained whimper.

“Wretched woman,” he groans, pressing his face to Sansa’s collarbones, letting her cuddle him to her breast.

“Sansa might like a turn,” Val shrugs. Sansa turns the red of a beetroot, but there’s definitely interest in her eyes alongside curiosity. Val smiles. She knew she liked this girl.

“Oh gods, no,” Jon rasps. “I couldn’t bear it, please, I’d never last.”

“Who says we want you to?” Val counters.

“ _Val_.”

“You’re no longer in charge, Jon Snow. Best get used to it.”

Sansa’s hand is small and slender under Val’s when Val wraps them both around Jon’s cock. Val can barely remember the first time she touched a man in such a way, but it feels as though she’s experiencing it anew through Sansa, through her murmur of surprise and discovery, in the curious exploration of her hand. Jon’s eyes are squeezed shut, his body a notched arrow waiting to be loosed. True to his word, he doesn’t last, and he comes fast and hard with both of their hands still wrapped around him, his release warm and wet on their hands and his belly. Sansa makes a surprised sound and holds her hand out before her, looking at the evidence of his pleasure coating her fingers. The sound she makes when Val catches her hand and draws each finger into her mouth to suck clean one by one is surprised in a different way, and it’s matched by Jon’s desperately appreciative rumble. It’s been quite long enough, Val decides.

“I want your mouth on me, Jon,” she says. Jon knows immediately what she asks, his face going slack with need. He tucks Sansa to his side and when Val plants a foot on the arm of the chair, he doesn’t hesitate, moaning gladly and licking from her knee up and into her cunt so sweetly that it makes Val clench and throb immediately. Sansa watches, wide-eyed, as Jon buries his face against Val, licking and sucking and making the sweetest, most obscene noises, appreciative hums and moans, his tongue sounding out wet and eager over every bit of her.

“He’s good at this,” Val tells Sansa on panting breaths, winding her fingers through his hair to pull him closer. “You’ll enjoy it very much, I promise.”

“Oh,” Sansa squeaks, her face a mix of want and mortification. “I couldn’t.”

“You could,” Val counters. “You will. You’ll want it. You’ll think on it every moment, you’ll want nothing more than his tongue in your cunt at all hours and he’ll want to give it to you. He never has enough of it, do you Jon?” She gives his curls an affectionate tug and he moans in answer, his lips and tongue still moving over her. “It’s all he wants,” she continues, her words turning dreamy as she tilts her head back, feeling the cool spill of her hair down her spine, the wet heat of his tongue curling inside her. Knowing Sansa is watching and biting that pink lip and wondering how his mouth would feel on her only makes it sweeter. “No matter how many times he has you, he will crave your cunt, he will taste you like you’re his favorite dessert, he will lick and suck every drop of pleasure from your body and make you come screaming his name.”

“Oh gods,” Sansa whines, “oh gods, oh _gods_.” 

“It will feel so good, Sansa,” Val breathes, her cunt tightening under Jon’s lips, her hips moving of their own accord to urge him deeper, closer, wanting only more, always more. “It will feel so very good, so very, oh, _oh_ , so _good_ , fuck, Jon, gods, _Jon_.” Val makes a wordless noise and lets her pleasure take her with his tongue buried inside her to feel the squeeze of her cunt. Her body bucks and shakes, and his mouth follows her, soothes her with the gentle sweep of his tongue, the hand that doesn’t hold Sansa to his side moving over her thigh and hip and belly in long arcs. Sansa is shivering, Val sees when she drags her head up and opens her eyes lazily, still feeling the sweet ache of her release coursing in her veins. Val leans forward, drags a thumb over Sansa’s lips, smiling when Sansa sways towards her, eyes gone dark and shining in the light of the fire, an urgent whimper sounding in her throat.

“I think I’ve piqued her interest, Jon,” Val laughs, and she feels his smile over her mound where he’s pressing sweet, long kisses. His attention to her doesn’t waver; she thinks he doesn’t even realize he’s sliding his hand from her knee and trailing it over Sansa’s leg. Sansa’s thighs quiver at his touch and then open, and he’s rubbing his fingers over her through her smallclothes in time with the rock of her hips, even as he layers kisses over Val’s hot, damp skin.

“You’re incorrigible,” he rumbles against her, punctuating the words with another sweep of his tongue that has her wanting nothing more than for him to lick into her and start all over again, but there’s time plenty for that.

“I am,” she agrees, pushing his face away and laughing at his disappointed sound, “but that’s why you love me.” His expression becomes soft and serious at her words. They don’t speak of such things, they never have. Love had always seemed a pale and poorly-shaped word to suit what’s between them. But perhaps it wasn’t so poorly-shaped as they’d thought.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I suppose it is.” She hides her smile at the words, but she can’t stop herself reaching out to caress his face, her touch betraying her heart. Then she has to laugh. He speaks of love to her with his hand on another’s cunt, and seems no less sincere for it.

“Oh Jon,” she says with a chuckle. “There are none like you. Come. Bring your bride to bed.”

Sansa is tall, but slight. Jon rises with her in his arms easily, her legs twining about him and her head tucked under his chin like she’s a clinging vine. He ducks his head to capture her lips, gives her a kiss so sweet and lingering that Val feels a momentary pang of jealousy that he is no longer hers alone. It’s gone as quick as it came, though. Becoming another’s makes him no less hers, that much she’s sure of.

Sansa rediscovers her shyness when Jon climbs onto the thick feather mattress with her still in his arms. A flush covers her from the tops of her breasts to her hairline, and if she weren’t sitting in Jon’s lap, Val thinks she might curl up into a ball to conceal herself from view. Val wonders if she will ever lose this air of innocence entirely. It seems impossible, like it’s as much a part of Sansa as her sweet nature and tender heart. It reminds Val of Jon in a way that makes something burn and ache in her chest. She catches Sansa’s chin in her hands, leans between her and Jon and kisses her, drawing her desire back out of the prim shell where Sansa’s hidden it until Sansa moans sweetly, chasing Val’s tongue into her mouth with such abandon that Jon gives a deep rumbling purr at the sight of it, at the sight of them, his two wives sharing hungry, welcoming kisses. She is not the first woman Val has been with; she’d been with Ygritte a time or two, actually, though Jon doesn’t know of it, and they had never shared Jon. But Sansa is entirely different from any woman of the freefolk and there’s a wild pleasure to awakening her response, in coaxing it as delicately from her as she coaxes the carved glass stopper from the perfume bottle Jon gifted to her on their arrival in Winterfell, one that had been Lady Stark’s before her death.

“Gods,” Jon rasps, “ _gods_ , you are both so very beautiful. I’ve seen nothing so beautiful as the two of you together in all my life.” Val smiles against Sansa’s lips. He always babbles when his desire is at its greatest pitch, soft endearments and words of adoration that only grow in sweetness the more vulgarly Val touches him. His cock is hot and hard under her hand, the head of it smooth and wet where it lies against his belly half out of his smallclothes. The words spill from him even sweeter at her touch, just as she knew they would. “My sweet girls,” he pants, his arms wrapping around them both, binding them together and pulling them against him. He kisses Val’s shoulder, Sansa’s jaw, every bit of them he can reach. “My beautiful, lovely girls, my _wives_ , gods.” Disbelief tinges his voice, along with a stunned sort of joy. “My sweet girls, how I want to love you, I want to fuck you both forever.”

Val smiles and moves her mouth to his, her hand at Sansa’s nape urging her to join Val until they are all three a tangle of breath and lips and tongue and wanting. “You _will_ fuck us both forever,” she promises, pulling away to draw breath into burning lungs. “But Sansa must go first.”

No one makes any protestation – only a fool would protest such a thing. Smallclothes are drawn down and tossed aside, bodies are explored with hands and lips and tongue. Val urges Jon’s shoulders to the mattress, she pushes Sansa to sit astride Jon’s hips, the sound of raw pleasure and need Sansa makes when her cunt brushes Jon’s cock pulling a breath-stealing twitch from Val’s own cunt.

“I don’t,” Sansa pants, anxiety drawn on her brow, her eyes squeezed shut in overwhelmed confusion. “How…what should I…Val, Jon, please, I don’t…”

“Shh,” Val soothes, her hand joining Jon's in stroking over Sansa’s thighs calmingly, gently, “shhh, kitling. Let me help you. Will you let me help you?” Sansa nods, helpless, a dark bead of blood welling on her lip where she’s bitten through skin. Val smoothes the blood away with her tongue, pushes the iron taste of it deep into Sansa’s mouth. When Sansa is pliant and mindless, Val moves behind her, straddling Jon’s thighs and pressing her chest to Sansa’s back. She snakes her arms around Sansa’s waist and pushes expert fingers through the thatch of hair at her sex, stroking over her with a fleeting caress before wrapping around Jon’s cock. “There, sweet,” she coos, gently easing Jon’s entry, letting Sansa stretch and adjust around him, regretting each thin, sharp sound Sansa makes at the unfamiliar invasion of her body. “Easy,” she says, rubbing over Sansa at just the right spot to make her tremble, to drown the pinch of Jon’s cock in pleasure. “Easy, there’s a girl. There’s a lovely girl.” At Jon’s rough sound, Val looks up. His restraint shows in his every muscle, tendons standing out at his neck and elbows and wrists. She knows he wants nothing more than to buck up and bury himself within Sansa, but he holds himself so rigidly still for her he could be made of stone. “You’ll deserve quite a reward for this,” Val tells him, her voice laced with enough filthy suggestion that he swallows hard and drops his head to the mattress, his hands fisting so tightly in the furs Val thinks he might rip them apart.

“What?” Sansa pants. “I don’t…”

“Nothing, sweet, nothing. We won’t move until you’re ready, all right?” Val kisses the line of Sansa’s shoulder, dips her fingers low to get them slick and wet and draws them over the bud under her fingers until Sansa is tossing her head and mewling.

“I’m,” she says. “Please, I’m ready. I want… I want…” She sinks down onto Jon’s cock without needing Val’s encouragement, taking him in deep so that she’s pressed to him fully. Val’s knuckles bump and rub over Jon’s belly as she continues to move them, pulling Sansa up towards her pleasure. When Sansa dips her head low and shivers, Jon gives the most pained moan imaginable, and Val thinks Sansa must have tightened around him, the heat of her squeezing his cock to push him to the edge. His face is a beautiful mask of blissful agony, his breath slipping from his lips in the shallowest of pants. Val doesn’t think she’s ever wanted him more. She flips her hand, presses it to his belly, strokes over him tenderly and affectionately.

“Soon, Jon,” she murmurs to him and he catches her eyes, nods, then drops his head back to the pillow and steels himself. Easily, Val catches Sansa’s hips to her with one arm, guides her in a sinuous rocking movement that wrenches such pained sounds of pleasure from Jon that Val can’t stop herself from rubbing her own cunt against his thigh, the coarse hair brushing against her to tickle and make her shiver. Sansa catches Val’s rhythm and mimics it with a shaky rhythm of her own. Her breath catches in her throat, she makes a sound of wonder and surprise, one that grows louder and longer when Val finds her with her fingers again to drive her higher. 

It isn’t long before Sansa’s release takes her, but Val thinks it must have seemed a lifetime to Jon. His face is red with the effort it’s taken him to hold back. Once Sansa begins the slow slide down from her peak, Val places a gentle hand on Jon’s belly, wordlessly urging him to loose his control. He responds in a heartbeat, surging up into Sansa’s limp body to spend instantly, his release spilling from him in pulsing jerks. Val continues the motion of her hips over his thigh, kissing at Sansa’s nape, the delicate spur of her spine. Sansa has had quite enough for one night to be entirely overwhelmed, Val knows, but she can’t stop herself from catching Sansa’s hand, pulling it behind her to press her fingers to Val, curving them under hers to wet them in her cunt and rub over her, Val’s need too unmanageable for her to sate alone. To her immense gratification, Sansa only makes a curious sound, then a pleased one, curling her fingers with Val’s until Val too is shivering and finding her release, finding it with a force so strong that she feels she might turn inside out.

She doesn’t remember moving. She remembers nothing since she came and saw stars floating in her eyes. But she’s pressed now along Jon’s side inside the curve of his arm, Sansa cuddled atop his chest holding Val’s hand in hers. Sansa’s eyes are closed, her breath sweet and warm where it issues between parted lips as she rises and falls on Jon’s chest with the machinework of his lungs. Jon’s eyes are open, though, and he watches Val intently, his face so soft and sweet it could crack her heart in half like an egg rapped on the edge of a frypan. It is too much – he is always too much – and Val attempts to draw her lost reserve around her like a cloak, quirking her lips at him and trying to keep her heart from her voice.

“You can thank me later,” she tells him archly, loving the instant rumble of his laugh, how easily he takes her teasing, her sharp humor.

“I think I’ll spend my whole life thanking you, Val,” he says. “Lovely Val. My sweet wife.” And there it is again; he will only ever be too much, and Val burrows her face to his neck, she lets him hold her fast and thinks perhaps it’s she who’ll spend her whole life thanking him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Show Me How To Follow You, and I'll Obey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/442871) by [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming)




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